


The Long and Short of It

by takethesky87



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Gen, Missing Scene, Subtext
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 17:08:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3216968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takethesky87/pseuds/takethesky87
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John scrubs a hand over his face and groans. “For God’s sake, Sherlock, don’t make me say it.”</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>For the tumblr <a href="http://anotherwellkeptsecret.tumblr.com/post/108604035934/i-need-a-fic-where-sherlock-finds-out-that-john">prompt</a>: "I need a fic where Sherlock finds out that John attempted to visit him before John was abducted and placed in a bonfire I need them to have that conversation."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long and Short of It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [penumbra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/penumbra/gifts).



By the time the flat empties, the light has grown faint beyond the windows. John flips on the lamp by the sofa, then joins Mary in the kitchen. Sherlock watches them from his armchair: Mary’s arms elbow-deep in dishwater, John’s hand touching her shoulder before finding a tea towel in the drawer beneath the kettle. The flush of champagne sits high on John’s cheeks.

Sherlock presses his fingers below his chin and winces, remembering the welts on his palms where the bonfire flames licked through his gloves. His eyes flick to the marks on John’s temple.

“Amazing.” John chuckles from the sink, putting away a champagne flute. “Three days, and I’m already doing his bloody dishes.” He turns to Sherlock, his voice sharp but his eyes fond. “Don’t suppose you want to help?”

“Says the man drying them.” Mary elbows John and raises an impish eyebrow. “Care to trade places?”

The two dissolve into playful bickering, and Sherlock’s mind drifts elsewhere, away from the uncomfortable ache in his chest. He adjusts his hands and regrets it immediately. “You were taken,” he says to John. “How?”

A gurgle of water as Mary unplugs the drain. John walks into the sitting room. “Hmm?”

“The bonfire. You were taken—describe it to me. Someone drugged you?”

John pats the pillow against his armchair, sinks into the cushion, and nods. “I was standing on the pavement, and a man knocked into me. Then someone else jabbed a needle into my neck.” He gives a tight smile. “Next thing I know, I’m beneath a pile of burning wood and can’t move.”

“A neuromuscular blocker,” Mary says, coming up behind John. She leans over, resting her arms on the back of the chair. “The doctor said he’s lucky it wasn’t a heavier dose, or else he might never have woken up.”

Sherlock crosses his legs, narrowing his eyes. “At what time were you attacked?”

“After work. Half five, maybe?”

“You said you were on the pavement. Outside your office? At the tube station? Give me details, John.”

“Well, er …” The color in his cheeks darkens. Sherlock blinks in surprise. “Not at work, no. I … well.” He clears his throat.

Embarrassed. John’s embarrassed. Sherlock cocks an eyebrow, contemplating the myriad reasons why John would want to hide such a simple piece of information. At his therapist’s office? Unlikely: he had never been ashamed of that in the past, not around Sherlock at least. Something Mary would disapprove of? In any other case, Sherlock would consider an affair, but he knows John well enough to dismiss that out of hand, particularly given the attempted proposal—

“Weren’t you going to come round here that night?” Mary says. “Baker Street, I mean.”

John has begun to pick at a loose thread on the arm of his chair, determinedly not looking at Sherlock. Sherlock stares at him. 

“Here?” He glances at Mary, a knowing look crossing her face. Sherlock frowns as she bites her lip, her eyes glinting. “Why?”

John clears his throat again, gaze still fixed on the chair. “Sherlock—”

“I think I’ll make some tea,” Mary says brightly. She presses a kiss to John’s head, spins, and waltzes back to the kitchen. John twists around to look at her, uttering a noise of protest as she slides closed the glass doors.

With a sigh, John turns back to Sherlock and meets his eyes.

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock says, truthfully. He lowers his hands to the arms of his chair, searching John’s expression. “You were coming here. Why?”

John scrubs a hand over his face and groans.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, don’t make me say it.”

He stands suddenly, walks toward the coffee table. Crossing his arms, he looks over the collage of papers still tacked to the wall behind the sofa. Sherlock studies his back and expels an irritated breath. “So you intended to see me. To shout at me,” he mutters, “presumably because you didn’t have your fill of that the night befo—”

“ _No_ , Sherlock.” He looks over his shoulder, slowly turns to face him again. “I wasn’t going to—I don’t—” He inhales, long and deep, through his nose. “Didn’t we do this already, in that bloody train carriage?”

Sherlock blinks at him. The ache in his chest blooms until it presses against his ribs. “You were going to forgive me.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” John warns, though a grin pulls at one corner of his mouth. He scratches the back of his neck and shakes his head. “I wanted to talk to you. To _talk_ , not shout.” Something wicked flashes behind his eyes. “And also to check if I broke your nose.”

Sherlock snorts. “No such luck, I’m afraid.”

“A pity.” He takes a step closer, placing his hands on his hips as his expression grows serious. Sherlock swallows, then tilts his chin to gaze up at him. 

“I missed you, Sherlock,” John says. “That’s the long and short of it.”

The quiet thrum of John’s voice sends warmth through Sherlock’s limbs. He shifts in his seat. “And I you.”

John smiles. Then he clears his throat, rubbing his hands together. “She’s been awfully long making that tea,” he says, and heads toward the kitchen, sliding open the doors. 

His heart light, Sherlock follows.


End file.
